


First Kisses

by ratedgrandr



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: First Kiss, Homophobia, M/M, Modern AU, Slurs, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratedgrandr/pseuds/ratedgrandr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six first kisses for different amis pairings! Modern AU setting! I might do more than six because these are a ton of fun to write! You don't have to read the chapters in order or the one before the other. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rose and the Thorn

**Author's Note:**

> First up: Bahorel and Jehan! A trigger warning for slight homophobic slurs and mentions of violence!

”You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? I had them.” Pink lips were stained red with blood from kissing wounds better as steady hands wrapped up cracked, bleeding knuckles. “And you’re always supposed to hit with the flats of your fingers, not your knuckles,” the man sighed in exasperation as his fingers brushed along the other man’s, right along the top where contact was supposed to be made when you threw punches.

A proud little grin settled on the other’s lips as he nuzzled deeper into the couch, biting his lower lip between his pearly white teeth to hold back the cries of pain as pressure was applied to his bleeding knuckles. “I knocked him out, didn’t I? Besides, it was me he called a ‘flaming faggot,’ not you, and I’ve got to fight my own battles, right?”

Everyone had gasped collectively when they had seen little Jehan, usually so cheerful and upbeat and free, pack a powerful punch at the bar. He’d hit the man right square in the nose which had emitted a loud crack, and immediately blood had started gushing.

But rewind back to five minutes prior to the punch. The Amis were all out for a drink at a local bar that wasn’t their own. Courfeyrac’s current crush, a pretty brunette with round, hazel eyes and voluptuous breasts, tended bar at this place, and while it wasn’t their usual hang out, no one was arguing with giving a new place a shot. Especially when said new place sold 75 cent whisky shots and for eight bucks on wednesdays you got all you could drink beer.

Jehan and Bahorel had both been dancing around the feelings that were obvious to everyone but each other for about two weeks now. They would openly flirt, but would ignore fingers brushing against each other, pushing aside the rush of blood and twisting of desire each felt in the pits of their stomach at such a simple touch. Tonight they were seated side by side, shoulder by shoulder, going shot for shot.

“That’s five for me,” Bahorel exclaimed jovially as he slammed his shot glass down. Jehan elegantly threw his shot back, exposing his pale, curved neck which Bahorel lustfully stared at. The blonde set his shot glass down and slid it towards the bar tender whose eyes were glued on Courf, and immediately he rolled his eyes. “You sir, are incredibly sexy when you do that,” Bahorel murmured softly, his eyes hungry as his hand slid up Jehan’s thigh. It might have been only his fifth shot, but he’d had four beers prior and while he was a heavy weight, he could already feel the warmth of the alcohol buzzing through him, igniting his blood and flushing his skin.  
Jehan only grinned, staring for a second at the contrast of Bahorel’s tanned, calloused fingers against the intricate pastels of his floral jeans. A soft blush colored his cheeks as he laced his fingers through Bahorel’s. His eyes glinted wildly as he leaned in to whisper something into Bahorel’s ear, something that had to have been naughty for the color drained momentarily from Bahorel’s jovial face. Seconds later the color had returned in the form of a bright blush, though a wolfish grin had curled across the larger man’s features as his fingers squeezed around Jehan’s thigh. He was about to speak up when he noticed over Jehan’s shoulder the two men staring openly at them and whipsering profusely to each other, their looks those of utter revulsion.

“Got something to say to me, motherfuckers?” Bahorel asked as his expression darkened.

One of the men shrunk away - the smaller of the two - but the other one, who had his shirt buttoned all the way and was wearing khakis and sperrys with an obnoxious bow tie, just straightened himself up and puffed his chest. “Is he your boyfriend?” the man sneered from the opposite side of Jehan, his eyes harsh as he assessed the poet. Tonight obviously hadn’t been the best night for floral skinny jeans and an over the top chunky, patterned pastel sweater that clashed perfectly with the poet’s pants.  
“No. But would it matter if he was?” Bahorel growled through clenched teeth. His grip was iron on Jehan’s thigh, and he yelped as he pushed the other man’s thick fingers off of him to prevent further damage.

“It’s ok, Rel, really, he just —” Jehan started defending the man, but when the guy continued talking, Jehan’s lips sealed shut in a tight line.

“I mean, fuck. I thought you’d landed yourself a damn fine woman, mate. But a flaming faggot?” the man sneered and shook his head. “That’s just fucking wrong.”

The scum didn’t have time to think, and Jehan didn’t put much thought into it as he drew his arm back and punched, no thought, no fear in his eye, just the normal cool confidence that Jehan did everything with. The blood dripped from both the man’s nose as well as Jehan’s split knuckles due to the impact with bone, but Jehan didn’t care. He slid from his barstool and tossed a twenty down on the bar to pay for his and Rel’s drinks. “You’d better watch your mouth, sir, or in the future you will land in much worse situations,” Jehan said in a velvety, lilting tone. Without another word, Jehan laced his fingers through Bahorel’s and they exited the bar. It wasn’t until they reached the parking lot and they were safely out of view that Jehan let slight panic and pain to register on his face as he slid into the passenger’s seat of Bahorel’s car. “Shit, I didn’t mean to hit him so hard,” he’d murmured as Rel had kissed his knuckles, a proud smirk on the man’s face. Jehan’s blood was metallic and thick against his lips, but he didn’t care, he just shook his head and pulled out of the lot, making the quick trip home, and hurriedly bandaging up Jehan’s hand.  
“Thanks,” Jean murmured as he cradled his hand against his chest, a sad look in his eyes. He felt bad for hitting the man, but the dumbass needed to learn a lesson. It wasn’t ok to say those things to anyone, and Jehan wouldn’t stand for it.

His blue eyes looked up then, glinting with unfallen tears from the antiseptic, and Bahorel was only inches from him. Immediately Jehan bit his lip and retreated, but the other man, who was much stronger than he, caught the front of his sweater between his fingers and tugged Jehan back against him, their lips meeting in a furious crash.

Jehan would have been lying if he’d said that he hadn’t wanted to do this the past few weeks. Bahorel was so appealing to him, with his broad shoulders, well-muscled chest, and damn, that beard… and it felt ten times better than he’d ever expected. They broke apart only seconds later with the poet gasping for breath, his fingers splayed across Bahorel’s chest and Rel’s strong arms wrapped steadily around his waist.

“Did I do something wrong?” Bahorel asked, an immediate frown marring his handsome features and his brow furrowed.

A grandiose smile danced across Jehan’s lips as he shook his head, causing light to refract wonderfully off of his voluminous blonde curls which were slowly working their way free from his braid. “On the contrary, you’ve done everything right,” he breathed as he pulled Bahorel in for their second official kiss.


	2. The Cynic and The Chief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras x Grantaire Modern AU first kiss

“Would you stop? Would you please just. fucking. stop?”

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to fill his gas tank up before leaving town. They had only a few hours before the meeting was going to start, and now he was on the backroads, a good half hour from the nearest gas station with a toyota that refused to start due to lack of fuel. The day had already been bad enough, and Enjolras wasn’t quite sure he could keep himself in check around Grantaire today.

“What? The mighty Apollo forgot to fill his gas tank and now he can’t withstand a bit of teasing? I think someone’s on edge tonight. Is it my fine appearance that has you undone, O Great One?” Grantaire’s voice was teasing, thick with humor that went unappreciated by the company he was keeping. Their surroundings meant little to him, for he’d been in worse situations, and he was simply looking at it as a funny story to retell later tomorrow once he’d slept his hangover off and had a fresh bottle in hand. Enjolras, on the other hand... well, he was Enjolras. And the look of utter fury that was on his face was one that most people wouldn’t contend with.

But this was Grantaire, and he was positive, most of the time, that he was put here simply to empassion Enjolras. Because without people like himself, people who nudged and poked and prodded Enjolras into these fiery rantings of his, who would the golden haired god be? Nothing but a foot soldier, nothing but a man without a cause, a man lost from a lack of passion because no one else bothered to care. Enjolras depended deeply upon his opposers, whether it was so he could cut them down or protest against them, they were the ones who helped to boost him up, to make him look good in a matter of speaking.

Sometimes Grantaire hit limits, soft spots in Enjolras’s armour, and he could see a hint of another emotion leaking through, could feel the flame withdrawing and see the hardness softening behind those piercing blue eyes. Tonight, he could see it, and could feel the physical tension rolling off of his companion in waves. But he wasn’t ready to back down, that much was evident already.

Grantaire clicked his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head as an impish grin flashed over his features and he leaned against the car. “Really, Enjolras, I expected you of all people to have the decency of remembering to --” He stopped his sentence as he noticed the heat in the look Enjolras was currently shooting him. It was just as impassioned as ever, but there seemed to be a hint of something else hidden within it... something Grantaire couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was absolutely carnal, the way Enjolras stood with his shoulders broadened, his chest puffed, and his stance that of someone who was going to pounce at any second. For the first time, Grantaire was actually, genuinely intimidated by his friend.

“Sometimes, I don’t know what to do with you,” Enjolras growled as he strode over, eyes appraising. Grantaire felt exposed, as if Enjolras was searching him for flaws like a farmer might assess a pig going to the slaughter. He was looking for a hole in Grantaire's defence, a way in, so to speak, a place he could poke that was tender and raw and truly inspired. But Grantaire didn't have many of those spots, and Enjolras would have to search diligently for what he wished to find. Those piercing eyes were cool, calculating, unyielding as they met the warm brown of Grantaire’s own stare. There was a flash of something there, something Grantaire couldn’t label, something that was deeper than just a warm sympathy for the drunkard, and registered on a completely different level entirely. And within Grantaire's eyes Enjolras saw what was usual now: warmth, jovial amusement for the sharp words and harsh phrases they swapped. Hs gaze was steady, unyielding, caring and tender and loving. It was things Enjolras had so long shied away from, things he didn't want to admit he felt for the man who had him undone simply with his words.

And then Enjolras did the last thing Grantaire expected. Honestly, most of him had been bracing for a slap or punch to the face, and so when soft, surprisingly gentle lips crashed into his, a warmth immediately spread through him as tensed muscles relaxed and he melted into the other man. It was instinct, for he’d dreamed of this happening over and over; he saw it in his fantasies, he played it through his mind hundreds of times each day wishing more with each vision that maybe one day he would be blessed by those full, pink lips upon his for even one kiss. One shot at this without another opportunity ever again was better than no shot at all.

So he risked all of the future kisses that could have been to salvage the one happening in the present, because what did he have to lose? Thin, pale fingers twisted through golden locks, caressed stubbled cheeks, cradled the base of that beautiful head of his. Enjolras was a contradiction beneath his fingers: a swirling, boiling, overpowering energy encased in a smooth, marble skin. Under his grip raged a powerful storm and a smooth sea, a sun that cast light upon everything and a black hole that sucked it all away into oblivion. He was a flower and a thorn, a man burdened with purpose and lightweight with an ability to brush it all off. Enjolras was heaven and hell all combined into one, a climax and a downfall and something that Grantaire had been sure he’d never be able to achieve. And yet here it was again, that damn contradiction that had him falling and feeling more grounded than ever all at one time.

Angelic lips were desperate for whatever poisons Grantaire’s unholy soul might transfer to him through such intimacies as a simple kiss. He wanted to feel all of R, from the tip of his perfectly sculpted nose to the pads of his fingers stained with paint and last night’s cigarettes. He craved the stale taste of whiskey he’d always associated with Grantaire, and was decidedly pleased to find more of a spearmint aftertaste lingering on the artist’s tongue, crisp, refreshing and light. Kisses could be cute and simple, but this one... this one was intimate and tangled and intense, thick with a transfer of emotions too strong for words. It said more than Enjolras’s shimmering speeches ever could, and Grantaire felt himself blushing, as if this impassioned display was too private to be happening out in the open.

When they broke apart it was like the earth splitting into a gaping chasm; the sudden lack of warmth was frustrating, and it seemed that Enjolras had never realized just how intoxicating the other man really was. His fingers remained carefully tangled through messy curls as he pressed his forehead to Grantaire’s, willing his racing heart to be still, praying that his blood would stop rushing, flushing his skin, heating his veins, causing a warmth to spread through places he’d never expected to feel. He’d never realized how separate and distanced he felt until that kiss. It made him feel whole, made him want to keep kissing Grantaire until nothing mattered but the way their lips curved into each other, how each muscle tensed and relaxed and resisted, pulled and molded to the other’s skin as if they were two pieces of clay gently being sculpted into a single, fluint being.

How Enjolras had achieved all of that from one kiss was absolutely beyond him, and he was a man who usually had answers.

Laboured breaths shattered the silence as questioning blue eyes met his pair of soft brown ones. Grantaire’s soul seemed to dance, for the briefest of moments, before their lips were crashing together once more, a chaotic dance of teeth and tongue, lip and feverish fingers dancing over flushed skin. They parted for the briefest of moments.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do that.”

Grantaire chuckled darkly at such admittances, tugging Enjolras back against him by the front of his fair trade v-neck shirt. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting, Apollo.”

\---

The lights flashed from quite a few feet back, the brights almost blinding them because Grantaire and Enjolras had been far too distracted to see the vehicle coming. In the passenger seat, a man adjusted his glasses and smirked slightly, one hand running through sandy blonde locks as he took in the sight of Grantaire pushed against Enjolras’s toyota, one of his legs hooked around the blonde’s calf and two sets of fingers tangled through cotton shirts and tugging at silky locks. “I’ll be damned,” Combeferre said, his voice holding a hint of amusement as he slid his wallet out of his back pocket and forked a twenty over into waiting fingers. “I can’t believe this worked, Courfeyrac.”

From the driver’s seat, the center bounced and tucked the newly earned cash into his pocket before reaching into the back seat and shoving clear tubing beneath Combeferre’s chair. “I got a full tank of gas and twenty bucks, not to mention maybe Enjolras will finally get laid... I’d call it a good night.”


	3. The Guide and The Cynic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Combeferre go on a not-date and neither could have anticipated how the night ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm. Basically a lot of shenanigans I love combetaire shhhh don't judge it's a nice ship. -pets-

“This isn’t a date.”

Or at least, Grantaire hadn’t meant for it to be. One minute Combeferre was helping him study osmosis for his low level biology final, the next thing Grantaire knew he couldn’t stop blatantly staring with a wild fixation at the man’s hands. They were perfect in structure, fluid in motion, and absolutely delightful to watch, as if each wild gesture was a work of art that Combeferre was carefully constructing and perfectly executing. And god, those lips! The way they formed immaculate syllables, each vowel rounded and perfected in smooth cadences as if Combeferre lived for moments like this. He lived to learn and to help learn, and he was so in his element right now that it was almost as mesmerizing as watching Enjolras on his throne of words, unable to be knocked down; Combeferre’s throne was made of long winded definitions and molecular structures that Grantaire never knew could be so beautiful.

The invitation to dinner that night had just sort of... fallen from the artist’s lips completely on accident. He’d been so mesmerized, so overcome with a desire to continue their one sided conversation of Combeferre speaking at him and him listening avidly, peaking forward on the edge of his seat, his chin cradled in his ink-stained fingers as those piercing gray eyes never once left Combeferre’s animated frame. Letting this die, letting go of all of it, that would just be an utter sin; Grantaire felt as if he were absorbing Combefrre in, as if the scholar was the sun and he was a simple flower - neigh, a weed - not worthy of such enlightening and tenderly selected words.

So of course the obvious answer had been an unmeditated, breathless sigh of “have dinner with me.” And Combeferre’s shock had flashed for two seconds before that perfectly sculpted mask took over once more and an easy, comforting grin had blossomed over full pink lips like a rose unfolding it’s warm petals. The answer had been simple, had dripped from those lips like liquid courage and confirmation, and had sent a wave of ecstasy through Grantaire, making him feel slightly awkward and anxious and excited and that was odd.

“No, of course it’s not.” Combeferre said the words with a soft acknowledgement of the truth: Grantaire wanted this to be more but didn’t have the heart to face the rejection he assumed was destiny. Both might verbally acknowledge this dinner as not-a-date, but deep down they both knew that was false. Grantaire had actually remained slightly sober for the evening and Combeferre had traded his usual plaid for a cardigan and v-neck and his nice skinny jeans that were only brought out when something serious might actually happen. (He said this was because they looked nice, but Courfeyrac insisted it was because on some subconscious level Combeferre acknowledged they made his ass look great.) “I will forewarn you though,” Combeferre leaned conspiratorially across the table, his fingers brushing softly against the back of Grantaire’s hand as he grabbed onto the edge of the small table to balance himself, “if this were a date, I would insist on paying at the end of the meal.” He grinned softly, carefully, as if waiting to gauge Grantaire’s reaction as the man let the words wash over him, fill him with a strange sense of desire he’d never expected. “Because if this were a date, I’d explain that I think you deserve to be treated as beautifully as you are.”

If this were a date, Grantaire would have grabbed his handsome face right then and there, would have insisted upon tasting those marvelous lips upon his own, would have tugged his fingers through smooth blonde locks that were held so perfectly in place and were asking for Grantaire’s fingers to muss them.

But this wasn’t a date.

Instead a single sigh singed the air, alleviating some of the desire constricting Grantaire’s chest as he stabbed unhappily at the chicken dish he’d ordered and had lost his appetite for. "And if this were a date, I would..." His words stopped, hung heavily in the air and pierced past the veil of 'not-date' into a territory that screamed something else. "I would make sure I showed you just how much I would appreciate that," Grantaire purred, his voice smooth and velvety as he traced his toe - clad in his favorite pair of TOM shoes - along the graceful curve of Combeferre's calf.

He could see the way his jaw tensed, teeth clenched, it caused his heart to wrench. Grantaire wanted him; he wanted this to be more, and there was no way he could eat right now. So he just pushed his food aside and exhaled once more as he sat back in his chair, grey eyes fogged with lust and hopes that he figured would never come true.

“Aren’t you going to finish your dinner?” Combeferre asked, slight concern in his voice. Grantaire’s mouth opened to answer, but his words were halted when he felt a shy toe brush against his foot, tracing along the outside of his shoe then playfully caressing along Taire’s calf and mimicking the motion he’d made only seconds before. Grantaire had never pegged Combeferre as the type to be seductive or good at this, but damn he was doing a good job of changing Taire’s mind about this not-date.

Grantaire smiled shyly and shrugged his thin shoulders. “Not too hungry... I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he admitted as he caught his lip between his teeth. The waiter dropped the checks off, and as Grantaire reached for his, his hand was gently pushed away.

It took everything in him, but Combeferre squared off his shoulders as he handed over two checks and one card. There was a warm silence, one that was filled only with grey eyes intensely meeting a soft, blue gaze as Grantaire felt his friend’s foot slide further up, tickling behind his knee and causing chills to errupt over Grantaire’s skin. This wasn’t accidental, nor was it subtle; honestly, how could Grantaire read this sign wrong? Not only had the man just paid for his dinner, but now he was playing footsie? Shit. This wasn’t supposed to be a date.

After writing down a tip and finishing off his glass of wine, Combeferre stood and smiled softly as he offered Grantaire his arm. With hesitance, Grantaire looped his arm through his friends as he stood. He carefully bumped his shoulder against Combeferre’s, a soft blush on his cheeks as he looked down at their feet, his clad in his black classic TOMs and Combeferre sporting a pair of gray TOMs cardones he realized Enjolras wore about once a week. “We’ll have to come back to this restaurant another time when... you know, you have an appetite,” Combeferre teased as he bumped his shoulder back against Grantaire’s as they reached the exit and headed towards the scholar’s beat up toyota.

“Yeah, sure...” Grantaire’s voice was far off and almost dream like as he stared at Combeferre, his eyes wide and his heart racing as he let his arm fall. Had the man just offered another night like this? Did he... actually stand something of a chance? It had caught Grantaire off guard, knocked the air from him and felt as if someone had punched him directly in the stomach but instead of pain flowing through him there was a sticky, beautiful warmth circulating through his veins and flushing his cheeks and making him feel utterly joyous. “I’d like that. A lot,” he murmured as he slid into the passenger’s seat and nervously tapped his fingers on his knees as they pulled out.

The drive to Grantaire’s apartment that he shared with Jehan was filled with soft conversation over a multitude of things that had been forgotten at dinner: music, movies, tv shows, the normal date topics Grantaire had worked so hard to avoid because it hadn’t been a date then. And now... now he wasn’t even sure. All he knew was that he wanted Combeferre. He wanted to feel those soft lips on his, wanted his skilled fingers to tangle through his hair and --

“This is you, right?” Grantaire snapped out of his trance as he looked up at his apartment building.

“Yeah,” he sighed as he pushed the door open and shoved his hands into his pocket, more than enough on his mind as he started up the walk.

That was when he heard the soft chuckle, felt fingers catch his elbow and gently tug him around. “Hey, talk to me,” Combeferre breathed. He was only inches from R, nose to nose, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Each part matched up perfectly, and it took every fiber of his will to keep himself from pressing those pieces together, matching up the puzzle, forming a perfect unison that sung the sweetest harmony. R sat back on his heels as he balled his hands into fists in his pockets to resfrain himself from reaching out and tugging the man closer. “You’ve been really... out of it the past half hour,” Combeferre murmured softly as his fingers laced through those unruly curls he’d been longing to touch since the moment their dinner had started.

“I don’t... don’t know what to say,” Grantaire breathed as he nervously shifted his weight and exhaled slowly in frustration. He moved to swat Combeferre’s hand away, but those fingers just tangled deeper into the mess of curls, held tighter and pulled R’s forehead against his before hesitantly pressing those pink lips Grantaire envied so much to the artist’s chapped, thin lips of his own.

It was soft. It was full of a longing he hadn’t expected and it was perfect. He couldn’t have composed a better kiss out of clouds and everyone’s best wishes combined even if he’d tried. None of the chick flicks and done it right, because this was the perfect kiss and Grantaire was already folded up the memory and tucked it away, a bundle of joy for a day when he was feeling down and sad and needed a pick me up. Maybe this wouldn’t last, but he could immortalize the memory, that was something Combeferre would never take from him.

Combeferre pulled away then, a sweet, almost innocent grin on his lips as he placed a more sober peck upon the man’s lips and tugged at the handle of the driver’s side door. “Grantaire?” he said, a sparkle glistening like the stars he so fervently studied as he rested his arm against the top of the car door.

The poet’s wide eyes found Combeferre, his head ducked and his hands still balled in his pockets. “Hmmm?” He murmured through lips pressed tightly together to repress the cry of joy he longed to make.

“This definitely was a date.”


End file.
